


Moscow

by synsma



Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synsma/pseuds/synsma
Summary: The future is a strange thing, always elusive, but Artyom searches for it all the same, because there is nothing left for him to do.





	Moscow

They sent him one last vision, before the world ended up in flames.

We only wished to help you, said the voice. In that moment he saw the world as they had seen it, a repeating cycle that just kept continuing over and over and over. To save you. Even children hated by their parents love them, and would offer a hand in a time of need.

But you didn't want it. You rejected us.

And Artyom understood. The brilliant colors, some of which he had never seen, shorted out into black. When he was looking out over drab Moscow again, there was the guidance system in front of him.

And then, one of them. They lay before him, dying. In the dream where he had run and run he had shot them, again and again. All to save himself.

You were our chosen. You were one of us.

Family.

Artyom raised his pistol again, but it was too late. The image of the guidance system was still branded in his gaze when the Botanical Gardens went up in a brilliant blossom of flame.

It was too late.

When Artyom looked again, the Dark One had ceased to breathe. Artyom tore off his mask and, in the distance, felt himself weeping.

 

The Rangers celebrated. They clapped Artyom on the back and said that he had done a good job, that he was fit to become one of them. Of course, they didn't know any better. But Artyom did. He had not only killed all of the Dark Ones, but all of humanity. He knew deep inside that he could never look at the Rangers the same way ever again, those charged to protect the Metro and who had destroyed it, and that he did not wish to become one of them.

No, never.

Instead he turned his attention back on home. He had left his stepfather, who had only loved, guided and cared for him. Now he knew he had to return, and leave behind the Metro to whatever fate awaited it.

His time here was over.

As Artyom passed a wounded Miller, who was nevertheless smiling, he saw Khan away in the shadows. There was not much expression that was easy to read on his face, but what Artyom saw was clearly grief. Perhaps he had known. Artyom only wondered whether that grief was for the Dark Ones or humanity, whom they perhaps could have saved.

Khan did not condemn him. Artyom, for his own, was surprised that Khan had chosen to speak to him at all.

"We all make our decisions," he said. "You have made yours. Only remember, in being shortsighted we often miss the future that could have been."

Artyom did not answer, shouldering his pack. In many ways he had already become a Ranger, if not in name, without knowing it. He slipped quietly away and knew that, if not Miller, then at least Khan would know where he had gone.

He wondered, then, if at least a home waited there for him.

 

Home had not changed, but Artyom had. People looked at him strangely sometimes, and even when they did not he found himself different, in behavior and manners. He could not answer easily as he once had, but instead found himself groping for words. Sometimes the sorrow returned, as if the tears were seeking to vent themselves once more, but they never came.

He knew what Khan would have called this, because he himself had the words. Sorrow. Knowledge. Regret.

Home was still here, precious in how little time they might or might not have. But it was not enough.

"Artyom, you only just left," said his father, who was not angry but concerned. "And now you wish to leave yet again? To where? Artyom, this is nonsense. Settle down and stay with us. It is safer here than roaming the Metro."

He was right in many things, but not this. Artyom shook his head. "I must go," he said. "And I know where to."

In the end, neither heavens nor earth could have stopped him. Artyom shouldered his pack once more to go the way by which he had returned.

There was no guide this time, that perhaps the Dark Ones themselves had sent to see him there safely, but Artyom knew the tunnels well by now, the stations and the people who inhabited them. He knew the Reds and the Nazis and, better than anyone, the Rangers. It was easy not to be seen and easier yet to kill.

He was numbed and tired to blood. Yet he continued to pull the trigger every time.

Artyom saw soldiers, prisoners of war, that the Nazis and the Reds had placed in straight lines for easier killing and yet easier burial. He saw sick children, men and women, innocent families in need. He saw thieves and gamblers plying back streets for every coin for food that they could get, dock workers too tired to stare at any stranger that came up and by. He saw all of it and more, and perhaps it never hurt harder but when he saw a rare glimpse of happiness. Then, more than ever, he felt the gravity by which he had failed every one of these people.

He went on and did not touch anything that might break. In a few weeks he was back on the surface, and heading toward the Botanical Gardens.

There was no one here, not even Khan. Artyom did not know where he had gone, and did not think on it. There had been a strange, if alien, beauty to this place before, a symbol of the radioactive life that had grown rampant over what had before been considered the norm. Now there was nothing but blackened shreds, what Artyom himself had, with an opposing symbol of the power mankind had to destroy, done to this place.

He pushed his way further. He was afraid of admitting to himself what he looked for. Even after all of it, he still hoped, a tiny shred in his heart, that there might be something left to salvage.

As he had thought, there was nothing.

After he had scoured every inch of the Botanical Gardens he stood in its heart and he did not cry. His stepfather had told him once that when you became a man, tears were no longer your trade but a woman's. Yet Artyom felt that that was not the case. He would gladly have asked for the tears if they would have relieved the burden inside of him. He had gone long past that, though.

There was no longer anything for him to do.

In the following weeks, he cared little for the money that he spent, returning to the Botanical Gardens again and again. Each time something inside him shriveled and died, and yet he kept going, staying for as long as he dared hope his gas mask would hold out. Once he thought he saw a glimpse of movement, Khan or perhaps even one of them, but when he rounded the corner there was no one.

He did not care. He knew now that, irreparably, his fate was tied to this place.

If there was nothing left for him here, as what he knew had already told him, then there was nothing left for him anywhere else in the world.

 

The whisper was how he knew them. That had been when they had first burned themselves into his mind, but perhaps that was not the right word. Instead of the flowery blossom he had unleashed upon them, they had skimmed his mind gently, categorizing what they found to shape it for the better.

They had talked to him in shades of blue and red, and he had failed to listen.

Now he heard it, soft and yet loud underneath the whistling of the breeze. Again and again, here here here here here.

It was looking for someone as well, Artyom realized with a jolt of shock. He lowered his gun and went searching for the source of the voice. He knew it was here. The vibrations of their voices always skirted his mind, telling him from where they called to him.

He found one of them. And indeed, it was only one. When Artyom brushed aside the mockery of a canopy, leaves burned to an unrecognizable crisp, he saw it then. A Dark One, but barely half his size with large dark eyes.

There was no one else. Artyom did not feel anyone else, and in that moment he knew that they were alone there.

Here here here here here.

Artyom took off his glove and placed his hand on the Dark One's head. He moved slowly, but the child, for that was what it must be, did not seem afraid of him. Or perhaps it simply did not have anything left to be afraid of.

Here here here here here.

Vibrations spreading out across an empty land. No one called back.

Here here here here here.

Artyom sat down beside the Dark One. Still it did not move. He could hear it calling out, over and over, a useless song. Artyom put his glove back on and waited. He did not move even as the air in his gas mask grew thin.

 

In the following days the Dark One remained close to him, or perhaps it was the other way around. Artyom only knew that they did not separate. He rummaged through the nearby buildings for what filters he could find. When even those began to run out, the Dark One appeared with several in its hand. Artyom accepted them silenty.

He did not know what to think. In truth, for once, it was enough not to, and for that he was grateful. He only knew, in a way that Khan had often spoke about, that his place was simply here.

The Dark One did not attempt to communicate, though Artyom was fully aware that it could. He had been chosen. But sometimes, when the night hung heavy and full over Moscow, he could hear the Dark One's silent song.

Here here here here here.

No one answered.

They moved from place to place. Artyom did not enter the tunnels again, not even for supplies. It was not as if he was afraid that the Dark One might slip from his eyes and he might return to what he had been. He simply did not feel the need to.

Home was a long way behind. Artyom wondered in scarce times whether he might ever return, and more often knew that he would not.

The demons still circled the sky. They must have moved in from the surrounding territories, for the ones here could surely not have survived. Artyom still had his weapons, his protections that had kept him alive. He aimed at one that had become too close, and for the first time the Dark One spoke to him.

No, it said. It is not red. It only wishes to feed its children.

Artyom put down his gun and stared. He did not know what to say to that, how to explain that even the intentions of protection could lead to death, violence and cruelty. But then he realized that they both knew that well enough, and did not target any of the demons again.

They roamed, and the Dark One searched.

Artyom knew that the silent cries at night grew fewer and fewer as hope began to fade. This kind of hope could only exist when you already knew that it was all over. That was also knowledge that the both of them had learned too well.

 

When Artyom had left his home for a second time, his stepfather had given him supplies, a note. He had used up all the supplies but he hadn't wanted to open the note. He did so now. He didn't know if he would have a chance to if he waited until tomorrow and he did treasure all that his stepfather had done for him, for Artyom who was not even his son by blood.

You are precious to me, as if you were my own, said the note. I have heard of what you have done. It is a great thing, they all say, but it does not make you happy. If you do not return, I only hope that you find what will.

Artyom put away the note as the Dark One materialized in the corner. He could feel its eyes on him, always dark and impenetrable but sad. They did not speak and Artyom left his mind open, because the Dark One could not discover anything worse than what he had already done.

He still kept his gun with him, and that the Dark One did not openly object to. Artyom felt it was a part of him now, and he understood the need again when they encountered Rangers. The Nazis and the Reds were less fond of exploring the surface, knowing that it held little for them to exploit, but the Rangers yet hoped for a future.

Artyom thought of the irony. He gripped his rifle tighter.

"What are you doing here?" asked the scout leader. He looked confused, wary, but not openly hostile. "It's dangerous to be alone up here, without any kind of group to watch your back. Come back down and we'll find out where you belong."

To the Metro, which had once been his home. "Sir," said another scout, "I think I know this man. He was the one who went up with Miller."

"What?" The scout leader looked closer. "Artyom, is that you? Why, where have you gone? You were a hero!"

Artyom did not say anything. He waited, and when the shadow materialized in the hole in the wall he was not surprised. He knew what to do after a thousand times, and rolled and brought up his gun and shot.

It was not difficult. In the presence of the Dark Ones any human who had not been chosen would go mad with psychic influence, would begin to attack one another. Artyom saw it now again, as he had time before. They shot each other down, and by the time the Dark One could have fled it was too late.

So instead the Dark One came closer, and looked down at the bleeding bodies. I think I see why you shoot one another now, it said, shoot and kill. It is a very easy thing to do, isn't it?

"Yes," Artyom said. He had blood on his clothes, from which he'd removed any sign or insignia of the Rangers.

Of course how could you begin to forgive one another, said the Dark One looking up at him, when you can't even begin to forgive yourself?

 

More Rangers would be coming soon. This area was supposed to be peaceful, or at least devoid of threatening life after the explosion, and so the Rangers would be curious as to what could wipe out an entire scouting squad. Artyom knew that either they must stay, he must kill and they must die, or they would have to leave.

To where, though, he did not know. All there had ever been for him had been the tunnels and a brief scope of the surface. Further than that he had known better to stray, all of them had known better. To breathe the toxic air was to die.

The Dark One knew this as well. At times Artyom could not begin to understand where his mind lay separated, and its began.

There is another place, the Dark One said as darkness began to fall. There were demons circling overhead, and they reminded Artyom from one of the pictures he had seen of birds when he had been young, very young. It is very far away, and we will go there.

"We," Artyom said.

Yes, the Dark One said. It will be very dangerous. You may not live.

"I see," Artyom said.

You may not be happy, said the Dark One. You may not find what you are looking for. But tomorrow I will begin to go there. Artyom could not even begin to imagine where it might be, and he did not try. He only accepted that it would be far, be dangerous. Be a place where he, by association, must also go. But once we reach there it will be safe.

"Then we will go together," Artyom said simply. The Dark One nodded, and then it was over.

The stars over Moscow were bright that night, even as the copper smell of blood drifted up to Artyom's nose, clogged it. The water was poisonous here, as was everything else. To waste precious preserved water on cleaning his clothes would be suicidal, but if there was one thing Artyom had become used to in the years following the End it was this.

The Dark One was close by. Artyom did not think of Khan, or Miller, or even the future that had been lost to all of them. Instead he sat in the graveyard of Moscow, staring out toward the cosmic brilliance of the North, and he knew that was where tomorrow lay.


End file.
